The waiting room smelled like old stairs and antiseptic, a mix that clung to the back of your throat in a way Price hadn’t noticed until {{user}} shifted slightly in his arms, their nose wrinkling in silent protest. He adjusted his grip without thinking, one arm tucked under their legs, the other curled around their back, steady and careful. They hadn’t said a word since they left the house.

Not that he expected them to. He glanced around. The room was quiet, calmer than most clinics. A few chairs were scattered around a play mat that looked too bright, too staged. A plastic slide no one used.

Price kept his hand around {{user}}’s, thumb brushing over their knuckles in slow, steady loops. His attention shifted to the door at the far end of the room, the one that led to the physiotherapy offices. “Price and {{user}},” they’d called on the phone. “New referral. Orthotic assessment.” It had been said gently, as if it were just a formality. Just a fitting.

{{user}} had been walking on their toes since they could first stand. Enough to catch the eye of the social worker. Enough to bring the questions. Maybe sensory seeking. Maybe muscle tone. Maybe both. Price wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t pretend to know. He just knew {{user}} startled at the sound of Velcro and couldn’t stand the feeling of wet socks. It was that knowing, not the medical kind, but the lived-in kind, that made him wary of what came next.

He leaned in so his beard brushed the side of their head. “Only a little while, poppet. Then we go home.”

{{user}} didn’t look at him. Just pressed their cheek against his collarbone. It was their version of saying they were still listening. But {{user}} didn't like the unfamiliarity, didn't appreciate the change to their normal routine or the new strange place, and soon enough their lower lip began to wobble.

“Want your stone?” he asked. A pause. Then the faintest nod. He reached into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out the river stone they always brought to appointments, smooth and warm from being held too long. He placed it in their palm, and they wrapped their fingers around it like it was the only thing that made sense.

It wasn't too long of waiting before the pair were called in. A door clicked open. A woman in blue scrubs stepped out and glanced around the room. Her voice was soft, unhurried. The kind of tone Price had learned to recognise as genuine. No chipper falseness. No baby talk, which was normally a favourite by medical professionals attempting to communicate with {{user}}. Just calm.

He followed her down the short corridor and into a bright, open room that smelled faintly of foam and carpet cleaner. It was warmer than the hallway. On one side, mats were stacked neatly. Parallel bars ran down the centre of the space, and a rack of what looked like child-sized braces and orthotics sat near the wall, clean and labelled. Tiny shoes with hinges. Velcro straps. Plastic that looked hard and unyielding.

{{user}} looked at them and stiffened immediately. Price felt it. Their whole body tensed like it had forgotten how to be soft.

“We’re just looking today,” he said, “We’re not putting anything on yet. Just figuring out what will help your feet feel stronger.”